


Say My Name

by terryh_nyan



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Brooding, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Crying, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Found Family, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Language, M/M, Mentioned Valdo Marx, Mild Gore, Mild Sexual Content, Suicide Attempt, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Yennefer Steals Houses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24462673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terryh_nyan/pseuds/terryh_nyan
Summary: Every time he closes his eyes, Jaskier dreams of him.---Grief can cast long shadows. Jaskier falls into them headfirst.In which Ciri is captured by Nilfgaard, Jaskier is in love with a ghost, and Yennefer is stuck picking up the pieces.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 72
Kudos: 141





	1. Comes to Us Alive

**Author's Note:**

> **EDIT: TITLE CHANGED FROM "COMES TO US ALIVE" TO "SAY MY NAME" (which was always supposed to be the main title but i somehow managed to forget)**
> 
> what you are about to read was supposed to be a 2k deathfic  
> ...  
> welcome to this 4-chapter monster
> 
> (Inspired by the wonderful ["Elect the Dead"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9627395/chapters/21749741) by @murasaki_gyps. I read it for the first time in 2010, on the archive it was originally published on, and it just stuck with me. This fic is a homage to it: to the single, most heartbreaking story I have ever read. And I have read _a lot_.)

_Death, we know,_  
 _comes to us alive  
_ _but all I want is you_

(“Elect the Dead” – Serj Tankian)

Ciri takes a deep breath, smooths over the creases in her dress, and climbs over the window.

It’s a beautiful night. The stars pepper the sky with light: some are huddled in tiny clusters, like children playing on the street; others are alone, islands at the center of their own black seas. Pinpricks, only appearing at the edges of your vision.

And then there’s the moon, a sharp crescent of a smile brighter than all the stars around it. Is it mocking her? Welcoming her? Ciri doesn’t know. She’ll find out soon, she guesses.

She had a rocky start – a stubborn streak born of idealism and grandeur – which she paid for, in tears and blood and pride; but she learned from the pain, and in the end, she played her part to perfection. Nilfgaard had no use for her in a dungeon, after all: it was in their best interest to believe her broken, pliable, a soulless doll which could be turned into a weapon at their earliest convenience. They hadn’t been easy to convince. They suspected; wanted to make sure; but Cirilla knew pride was not her fault alone, and soon, Nilfgaard fell to that same sword.

Only it has yet to realize.

Ciri closes her eyes and inhales the cold air of the night. It’s wonderful. It’s her first breath of fresh air in weeks, perhaps months; a pity, really, that it must also be her last.

Her torturer had let it slip, at first to taunt her and then to break her: how her grandmother had died. Emhyr must not have known she knew: there’s no way he wouldn’t have put bars at her window if he had. Pride makes for foolish mistakes.

She lets all sensation flood to her: the caress of the wind on her face, the lingering pain in her body. She wants to feel everything, if only one more time.

Ciri picks out the sounds one by one: the rustling of leaves, the hoot of the owl, the howl of the wolf. And something else, too, something unexpected that makes her brow furrow: sharp cries, coming from the lower floors of the tower, and the clang of metal.

Something’s happening.

Steps come rushing to her door.

She only has a handful of seconds left: she can jump to her freedom now, make it all go away in an instant. Be with her grandmother again.

Or she can roll the dice with whoever is going to come out of that door.

But she knows it can’t be anything good for her. Holding on to the stone wall, she shakes her head, a crumpling smile on her face and tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She has to rid herself of it – of the hope surging in her chest like a tidal wave.

Because Geralt of Rivia is dead. And no one’s coming to save her.

She doesn’t know, then, why she hesitates. Why she keeps her hold steady with both hands on the wall; why she keeps an eye out for the door.

Why, when it bursts open with a kick, she turns all the way.

There’s a man there, dressed in black and covered in blood. A sword is in his hand, and his eyes are glowing like a beast. A wolf-shaped medallion is hanging from his neck.

Ciri feels it in her heart, sees it in his gaze as concern flashes all over his features, that she can finally let go. Right now, for the first time in forever, she has nothing to be scared of.

“Come down from there, princess. Please.”

Ciri does.

Slowly, she releases her hold on the wall and takes the hand she’s offered. As soon as that, all of her strength leaves her: strings cut down, she falls with all of her weight on the stranger. It’s not much weight, though, and he doesn’t lose his footing – simply wraps her in his arms and promises her she’s safe now.

“I thought you were dead,” Ciri sobs into his armor. “I _felt you_ die. So how…?”

The stranger releases his grip, if only slightly. Ciri feels him tense up, and twists her head to look up at him, really look at him.

“I’m sorry, princess.”

His voice is soft. Kind. But raw, too, with a suffering so deep Ciri sees, for the first time, a mirror of her own pain in those eyes with no tears left to cry.

“We really must go now,” he adds. “She can’t hold out much longer. I’ll explain better once we’re out of here.”

“Who are you?” Ciri asks. There’s no wariness in her voice, and she can’t fully explain why.

The man offers her a small smile.

“My name’s Jaskier.”

_three months ago_

As Jaskier takes the sword through the last drowner, a slow clap echoes behind him.

“Very well done,” Yennefer says, legs dangling from a twisting tree trunk. “You’re really coming into your own here, Jaskier. Fulfilling the demand, and all. Maybe a couple of years from now you might even manage not to get an entire arm torn off during a routine job such as this.”

Jaskier scoffs at her. It’s more out of habit than anything, at this point. “So sweet of you to worry,” he replies with insincerity, collecting the heads, and shrugs. “It’ll just grow back. Everything always does.”

“Poor you.”

He wades out of the swamp leaving a bloody trail behind, black and red swirling together into the murky water. “Have you nothing better to do than to perch on my shoulder and pester me to death?” he asks, swiping mud off the gaping hole where his shoulder is supposed to be. “Or, well. Whatever passes for death these days.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes at him. That, too, feels like habit. After all, nothing she can say or do seems to have any effect on this version of Jaskier other than mild annoyance. At least he can still give as good as he gets – that, if nothing else, has outlasted all change. “Twenty-five years I’ve had the displeasure of knowing you, and all you had to show off for the passing of days was a faint case of crow’s feet. Now look at yourself: immortal, invulnerable, and carrying all the burden of time on your face. Think you got the short end of the stick there, buddy.”

“Don’t I know it.”

The mage leaps down, graceful as a cat. “This might not kill you, bard,” she sighs, taking care to stress the epithet, “but it can still hurt you.” She brushes her fingertips against the pulsing flesh, already starting to knit back together. Jaskier’s breath hitches. “You’re no Witcher, Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

“That may be so, _witch_ ,” he retorts, shaking her off, “but I haven’t been a bard in a long time, either.” He fake-tips his hat at her and heads back into the thicket of trees, towards the town.

Yennefer calls after him. “Is that why you carry your lute on your back all the time, right next to _his_ sword?”

A pause. A twitch in his good arm.

Yennefer waits.

“Two swords are overkill,” he shoots back in the end, almost carelessly. “Never understood the point of it, aside from the poetry. And poetry is better conveyed through music.”

“Suit yourself. It’s your funeral.” She smacks herself on the forehead. “Oh, _wait_.”

Yennefer hears Jaskier’s fake laughter disappear into the trees, and then there’s silence.

_six months ago_

Jaskier wraps an arm around his stomach, grasps at the torn fabric of his tunic, and bends over to retch.

His breath is a wheeze, boiling with the taste of acid and fear. He holds on to the nearest tree for balance, but it’s too clumsy, too slow, and he ends up digging into the dirt with his knees.

In his shaking hand, a silver sword bloodied black.

The corpse of the creature is oozing goo at his side. Jaskier tears his gaze away, but he’s drawn back in almost immediately, a sick pull which makes his stomach churn around nothing. He folds unto himself, fingers leaving bloody streaks in the ground; it won’t be easy getting back on the lute with those, he thinks distantly, bitter laughter in his mind.

_The spider-like creature snaps, edging towards him on lightning-fast tiptoes, making that bone-chilling sound halfway between a scream and a snarl and sending a horrible breath Jaskier’s way._

_Jaskier grips the sword with both hands, his entire body shaking._

_He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here, hunting_ his _monsters, wielding_ his _sword– he can’t even keep it still, can’t even keep_ himself _still–_

“He’s just a bard!” _growls a voice in his mind, in a faraway place, a cave tucked away in space and time with elves around them and steel at their throat._

 _That’s right – he’s just a bard; so_ why _?_

 _Jaskier laughs. It’s just a huff at first, then an avalanche. He laughs until the monster halts its movements to tilt its head it him, and for a moment it looks no more threatening than a perplexed little bird; he laughs until his lungs hurt, until he has to clutch the sword as tightly as he can to keep it from clattering to the ground and leaving him even more fucked than he already is; he laughs and laugh and laughs and realizes, like a distant dream,_ “oh. So this is how I die.”

_The creature takes aim. It raises its front claws, points them straight at Jaskier’s chest, and lunges._

Jaskier stares at the sword in his hand. Contrary to popular belief, he knows how to use one: after all, any Viscount’s son is expected to be half-decent at sparring, if only for the purpose of showing off at tournaments. He’d soon found out he preferred real music to the melody of clashing weapons, that he’d far rather taste soft lips than engage in the cold kiss of steel against steel – but he still had to show up for his scheduled lessons, every other day for the better part of eight years, the morning’s frostbite ever-present at the back of his neck.

So, yeah, he can handle a sword.

What he _knows_ he can’t do, however, is what just happened to that monster lying in a heap at his feet.

He brings a hand up to his chest. There’s a gash there, where the beast’s claw had struck – just as Jaskier buried the sword to the hilt in its shell – and it burns through him, a flare of pain so horrible his brain must be tuning out half of it.

He rolls with his back against the tree, muffling curses, and barely has the time to glance at the blood seeping in rivers from his wound, staining his palm and everything else in sight bright red, before his senses shut off one by one and he sees black.

∞

“He lives,” a sarcastic voice greets him in the morning. “Dumb _and_ lucky.”

The room comes into focus slowly. Tall walls surround him; the furniture is old and tasteful, and the sheets feel like silk. A far cry from any inn he’s ever been to.

“Did you steal a palace again?” he manages to croak out, throat sore. Yennefer hands him a glass of water without looking at him.

“Hardly a palace,” she mutters, running two fingers along a heavy mahogany dresser. “But the Baroness was _so_ insistent.”

Jaskier takes in her appearance: a black dress, with velvet sleeves and a high lace collar. Around her neck hangs the chain of a huge quartz, dipping low in the curve of her breasts, like a hole in her body.

With a start, the bard remembers. His hand shoots up; he clutches his chest, pats frantically across his ribcage – and finds it whole.

“I, uh… I suppose I should thank you for saving my life. Again. Even though it’s honestly a little bit creepy that you’d even know I was–”

Yennefer locks eyes with him. There’s something serious in her gaze, a gravity that has nothing to do with her usual aloofness.

Jaskier thinks that it might be fear.

“I didn’t heal you, Jaskier.”

She turns to face him fully. There’s a pause between the moment her lips part and the sound coming out of them, conflict flitting all across her face. “What did he say to you?”

Jaskier’s gaze drifts away. The seconds tick by, but he doesn’t offer a reply.

“Jaskier. We need to talk about this.”

He starts to get up. Balance slips from his fingers a couple of times before he can stand steady. “Yeah, I don’t think we do.”

Yennefer walks around the bed in long strides.

“Your flesh knitted itself back together. I _saw_ it.” She’s searching his gaze, but Jaskier doesn’t turn to look at her. There’s an edge of desperation in her voice he doesn’t recognize – it’s out of place. It’s not Yennefer.

“What did he say to you?”

“You know,” Jaskier replies, tugging on his boots, “I think that’s really none of your business.”

The mage grips his chin: her patience’s wearing thin. So is Jaskier’s.

She takes a long look at his face, staring into his eyes. Searching.

“Stop that,” he says, pointing a finger at her, scrambling to get up. “Don’t you dare.”

“Then tell me.”

He makes quick work of grabbing his stuff, then heads for the door.

“ _Jaskier._ ”

She could force this, if she wanted to. They both know he’d be no match for her.

Jaskier chooses not to dwell on why, then, she isn’t doing that. He’s always hated pity, and being pitied by Yennefer of Vengerberg of all people feels like an ugly slap in the face.

“Thank you for your help,” he says, quietly. “Give the Baroness my regards.”

Yennefer curses under her breath, but doesn’t try to stop him.

That, too, feels too much like pity.

_now_

Fringilla paces inside the ring of fire. “You can’t keep me here forever.”

She’s right, and she knows it: that’s the only reason her sick smile is still hanging from her lips, growing sharper and crueler with each drop of sweat rolling down Yennefer’s back.

Yennefer knows it too. “Not forever,” she replies, sibylline, making a poor job of keeping the fatigue out of it. “Gods, what a nightmare that would be. I rather think we’re not that close as sisters. Yeah, sister?”

That’s when she hears it: a quiet voice in her ear. If they’d told her that, one day, she’d be relieved to the point of tears to hear Jaskier’s voice, she would’ve laughed the era away. The things war does to people.

Fringilla seems to sense it, the sudden shift in Yennefer’s mood, because she makes one last attempt at breaking through the ring of fire. If Yennefer didn’t know any better, she’d call it ‘desperate.’

“Well, then. It’s been lovely, sister,” she croons, and lets herself fall into a portal.

Fringilla is a fearsome mage: they have perhaps three seconds to spare before their whole operation turns into a cautionary tale for the enemies of Nilfgaard.

Luckily, Yennefer has always loathed tales.

She grabs the bard by the back of the collar and the princess by the shoulder; the portal closes again, this time a hair’s breadth from Fringilla’s hungry fingertips.

_one month ago_

Killing gets easier over time.

It’s like playing and singing at once, really: hard to coordinate your thoughts and movements, at first – but then again, practice does make perfect. It’s been months since he’s last thrown up over the corpse of a monster, and several weeks since he was last maimed to death.

Or, well, near-death.

“You’ve really got this brooding thing down to an art.”

Jaskier doesn’t raise his eyes from the table. He doesn’t need to: Yennefer’s weight lands gracefully and uninvited on the chair across from him, and he takes a swig of his beer. Ignoring problems until they go away has seldom worked for Jaskier, but isn’t there a first time for everything?

Yennefer crosses her legs. “Heard they’re calling you the _Songwolf_ now. A bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, wouldn’t have gone for it myself.” Jaskier’s gaze finally rises to meet her eyes. “But hey, will of the people, right?”

“I thought you weren’t performing anymore.” Yennefer gives a pointed look at the lute resting against the wall by the bard’s side.

“I’m not,” he confirms. “Not for human audiences, anyway.”

He’d discovered it one night, almost by chance, while he was camping in the woods. His lute had needed repairing – sentiment was a hard beast to kill – and, thinking it would be nice for it to match the rest of his new getup, Jaskier had it dyed black and ordered new strings laced with silver. That night, he’d been on the traces of a werewolf, but the trail had run cold. So he’d taken up his lute and started strumming, absent-mindedly. The strumming turned into a melody; the melody turned into a song.

Soon, an inhuman screech echoed in the forest.

Jaskier found the werewolf not too far into the woods. He was dead, curled up on the ground, blood pouring out of his ears.

“Can’t imagine the monsters enjoy it much,” the mage mutters.

“Not really. But that’s rather the point, isn’t it?”

Yennefer rests her violet eyes on him. “It’s hard to think there’s much of a point to any of this.”

Jaskier doesn’t reply.

For a long, endless moment, silence stretches between them. Jaskier’s come to find comfort in it: the absence of noise. The absence of everything.

Now, if only he could find comfort in the absence of Yennefer…

“I’ve heard something else, too,” Yennefer says finally, breaking the silence. “It appears Emhyr is going to marry.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows move of their own accord. “Ouch. And who would the blushing bride be?” he muses. “A striga? A ghoul?”

“A princess.”

Yennefer leans in. She doesn’t say a word more, but her eyes tell Jaskier all he needs to know.

“No,” he shakes his head. “No, she’s… she’s gone. She must be. It can’t be her.”

The mage’s lips curve into a humorless smile. “Destiny can be a cruel thing, can it not?”

Jaskier leans back. He takes in a breath, collecting his thoughts. Yennefer’s gaze doesn’t leave him the space of a moment.

“You’re mistaken,” Jaskier says, finally. “There’s no way. Their fates were tied together.”

Yennefer’s voice grows quieter. Her gaze drops. “So were ours.”

She can glimpse Jaskier’s eyes widen, feels his blue gaze search her for any signs of a lie as reality sinks into him like a sharp set of teeth.

“Fuck,” Jaskier curses under his breath. “How long has Nilfgaard had her?”

“Almost eight months now, if my sources are to be believed.”

The bard scoffs. “And are they?”

Yennefer blinks. Her voice turns to granite. “I didn’t give them much choice in the matter.”

Jaskier takes a moment to collect his thoughts and nods, then gulps down the rest of his beer. The bottom of the pint knocks back onto the table with a loud _thud_.

“Well then,” he declares. For a moment, Yennefer could swear his eyes look like they’re glowing in the dim light of the tavern. Her breath catches. “I suppose we’ll need a plan.”

“Just like that?” Yennefer asks, but she’s already smiling her all-knowing smile. Jaskier finds a trace of relief in it, too, and doesn’t know what to make of it.

He thinks of _his_ daughter, tied up in a dungeon, surrounded by Nilfgaardian torturers. The glass cracks beneath his fingers, a spider web snaking underneath his thumb.

That’s all the reply Yennefer needs.

_now_

Cirilla is fast asleep.

Jaskier watches the moonlight dance in her hair. It looks almost white, he thinks, brushing a few strands away from her face with his free hand – the one that isn’t still squeezed inside hers.

On the other side of the bed, lying down next to the princess and holding her other hand, there’s Yennefer.

“I think she likes you,” Jaskier comments, softly. It earns him an eyeroll and, to his surprise, an actual smile.

“She didn’t hate you either,” she replies, sitting up carefully. “She trusts you. With everything she’s been through, that was far from granted.”

Jaskier hums in agreement. “When she saw me, she…” he starts, then pauses, hesitation creeping into his voice. “She thought I was…”

Yennefer gives him a look that feel suspiciously like understanding. “An easy mistake to make.” Her gaze settles eloquently on the wolf medallion hanging from his neck.

Jaskier feels the impulse to turn away. He disentangles his hand from Cirilla’s, gently, so as not to wake her.

“It’s not just that. She said something that… I just can’t shake.”

With careful, feline movements, Yennefer crawls quietly over to the other side of the bed. She settles next to him, but there’s still space between them – easily enough for one more person.

“What was it?” the mage nudges, cautious. These past few months, Jaskier has felt like a feral cat: one wrong move and you’d spook him away for weeks. Right now, he looks frail, too, ready to collapse at the first gust of wind; it’s not worth the risk.

Jaskier takes a deep breath. It feels shaky in his lungs, and he curses himself for being like this – still like this, after almost a year. He knows he’s been walking on a precipice, handling the pain in all the worst possible ways. And Yennefer has always been one step behind him, ready to yank him back when he’s about to fall over the edge.

Worse, he knows he’s been acting like he’d been the only one to lose someone – like Yennefer herself hadn’t lost him, too. Like she hadn’t been grieving just as strongly.

He feels her fingers reach for his hand on the mattress. It’s a discreet, feather-light touch, one that he could pretend he didn’t notice. But Jaskier is so, so tired of pretending – so tired of putting up walls too tall for himself to be able to see past them. He gives her hand a soft squeeze, a silent thank you that he hopes will come across until the words return to him. He’ll say it properly, then.

“She said she felt it. When he…” Jaskier trails off. He glances up at Yen’s eyes, and the flash of pain he sees there is enough to crush his heart. “And yet, she was so certain that I was…”

Yennefer is quiet for a while. The only sign that she’s still there are the tiny, circular strokes of her thumb on the back of his hand.

“It makes sense that she would,” she says, finally. “Feel it, I mean. That’s how I found you.”

Jaskier nods, slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, all of a sudden. “I wish you didn’t have to deal with… this,” he mumbles, gesturing at himself.

There’s such tenderness in Yennefer’s eyes; so much wisdom and understanding, like a mother. Like a friend. “Eh, I’ve dealt with worse. No one will ever be as much of a baby as the lords of Aedirn.” That, at least, manages to jerk a sob of a laugh out of Jaskier.

“Although stitching your head back onto your body? That I would’ve gladly gone without.”

“Honestly, I’m shocked you didn’t just leave me there to rot.”

Yennefer shrugs. “It’s not like you would’ve. Could’ve just kept the head, though. On my desk, like a parrot – really sell the vibe to the customers.”

“Or taken me on a tour of the Continent. Bet people would pay good money for a show like that.” He feels a smile grow on his lips, sincere and unfamiliar. “I could’ve been the first eighth of a bard to win the Bardic Competition.”

Yennefer whistles. “Fuck Valdo Marx, right?”

“Yeah. Fuck Valdo Marx.”

The moon has almost set over the horizon. The stars, like dust, gaze back at them from far away.

“Something’s wrong with all this, Yen,” he murmurs, feeling his voice fray at the edges. “I mean, it’s all wrong; nothing about this makes any sense. But… it’s more than that.”

He wishes he could explain it all to her. Explain how he’s been slaying monsters with moves he’s never learned; explain how he’s been taking potions that should’ve killed him on the spot; explain how, sometimes, he’ll look up into a mirror and for a split second there will be yellow eyes staring back at him.

How it doesn’t matter how many times he goes back there, in his mind, in his dreams– because he just cannot _remember_ –

“Hush,” Yennefer says, wrapping her arms around his head, and that’s when Jaskier realizes he’s been crying. It’s strange, the feeling of tears streaming down his face so freely. He hasn’t felt that in a long time. “I’m here. Okay? Fuck,” she adds, and her voice is breaking, too.

What a perfect couple of idiots, Jaskier thinks, fighting the urge to shake his head at their own absurdity. How the princess is still sleeping is a mystery; Jaskier decides he never wants to find himself on the other side of Yennefer’s sleeping draughts.

They stay like that for a while, until their breaths even out and the moon disappears below the horizon.

“Yen,” Jaskier calls, voice barely above a whisper. He can feel the exhaustion taking over. “There’s something you should see.”

Yennefer tilts her head and just looks at him as Jaskier takes her hand and brings it all the up to his forehead.

The mage’s eyes widen, then, realization sinking in. “You don’t have to–” she starts, but he cuts her off.

“I want to. I think I need to. And you… you deserve to know.” It’s almost a plead, and it breaks Yennefer’s heart in places she thought had long gone numb.

Holding back the tears, Yennefer nods.

With that, the tension holding Jaskier together dissolves. He leans back into the bed, and he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.


	2. No One But You Could Ever Fill My Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the pain-train is back!
> 
> while editing, i split the final chapter in two, so now this is a 5-chapter mini monster. yay!
> 
> i want to thank everyone who left comments (and kudos and bookmarks!) on the first chapter: it warmed my heart to get such response. thank you so much!!
> 
> this chapter has an intro song as well - all of them do. i highly recommend listening to them: they're amazing. and this chapter's song especially, because it has been on repeat for almost the whole time i was writing and by now it's become part of my DNA.
> 
> as i was saying in the comments, the story is all written and just going through some minor edits, so i'll probably update very frequently.
> 
> there's a few references to the games in this chapter (which i have never played, so everything comes from wikis), kudos to whoever can catch them! i will explain all references in the notes of the final chapter, so as not to spoil anything.
> 
> again, thank you from the bottom of my heart! this fic has been my first experience in 10 years of fandom at writing AND finishing a multi-chapter concept from beginning to end. miracles do happen.
> 
> enjoy!
> 
> IMPORTANT: WORK TITLE EDITED! just realized i had accidentally used the first chapter's title as overall title. Fixed it!

_You’re in my stars, you know  
_ _Don’t need no crystal ball to tell me so  
_ _Whispering in the air  
_ _Hoping that my words find you somewhere  
_ _Even when I close my eyes  
_ _I’ll never recreate the time that flies_  
_The consequence is hanging there  
_ _The sky will fall, but I don’t care_

(“Juliet” – Emilie Autumn)

_nine months ago_

Every time he closes his eyes, Jaskier dreams of him.

At first, it’s just the events of that day, over and over again behind his eyelids. It’s the snow of the mountain, the sunlight filtering through the holes in the roof of the cave. It’s the nonsense conversation they were having (“C’mon, there _must_ be a food you like best! And no, beer doesn’t count”) right before the ground started to shake. It’s golden eyes lighting up with fear at the sight of the enormous mound of stone roaring to life, gaze flitting restlessly between the creature and Jaskier. It’s the pressure of his hand against Jaskier’s chest, shoving him out of the way as a flash of silver comes up to guard against a huge fist made of rock and ice.

It’s his voice, low and charged, telling him to run.

It’s Jaskier’s own stubborn voice replying, over the sound of clashing blows, _Forget that._ _I’m not leaving you_.

The cave is small, too small. There’s Signs drawn across the air, fingers moving in a triangle shape and fire bursting against the Golem’s body, dealing far too little damage; there’s a blow crushing straight into the cave’s entrance, debris falling to seal the way out; there’s sweat and blood and desperation as the Witcher’s movements grow reckless, a thousand calculations running behind his yellow eyes for each passing second. He tries to drink a potion, taking advantage of a moment of respite in the Golem’s attacks, but the bottle slips and rolls and Jaskier knows he won’t make it in time.

He throws a rock at the Golem; taunts it, screams at it; anything to draw its attention away, if only for an instant.

But the Golem isn’t interested in him. Golems are simple creatures, one-track minds, and Jaskier screams himself hoarse and throws stones until his hands bleed, but the creature doesn’t stop.

Jaskier calls Geralt’s name, running towards him as the Golem lunges.

Their eyes lock for one moment. He looks at Jaskier, then the Golem, then Jaskier again; resolution flashes inside Geralt’s gaze. The Witcher waits until the last possible moment before the impact, sliding down so that he’ll be face to face with the Golem; he traces Igni in the air one last time, one split second before the Golem’s weight crashes over him, and there’s a burst of fire and light and a _scream_.

The beast shatters. The shockwave sends Jaskier flying against the opposite wall of the cave.

As the dust settles, ignoring the ringing in his ears and the blood running down his temple, Jaskier scrambles to his hands and knees and stumbles over to where the Witcher was standing. He’s only distantly aware of his own voice, a faraway noise, calling Geralt’s name over and over.

“Geralt,” he pleads, hands coming up to his body and shaking him desperately. “Geralt, please, wake up.” His body is twisted at an unnatural angle, legs pointing in opposite directions and one arm clean off its socket, but he’s been through worse, right? Geralt’s been through hell and back so many times, faced off so many monsters, this cannot possibly be the worst of it. Surely, he’s going to be okay?

There’s a faint flutter of eyelids, and a pained groan breaks the silence.

“Thank the Gods,” Jaskier mutters, hands resting at either side of Geralt’s face. “You’ve scared me, you know?”

Relief is already crashing through him: it’s going to be okay, Geralt’s going to be okay; he’ll give him one of his potions and carry him down the mountain, on his back if he has to; then they’ll find Roach at the foot of the mountain and head back into town and everything will be just–

“Jas… kier…”

Geralt’s good hand comes up behind his head. His eyes are soft, softer than he’s ever seen them, and fear creeps back into the bard’s bones, making his heart pound against his ribcage as Geralt’s lips move and no sound seems to come out– or maybe it’s just the sound of Jaskier’s blood in his ears drowning out everything else–

The Witcher’s fingers stroke circles on the back of his head, and the bard leans into the touch, all of his attention on Geralt’s labored breath and golden eyes, pupils growing in and out of focus.

Geralt pulls Jaskier’s forehead against his own and mouths _something_. Jaskier strains his ears, follows the movement of the Witcher’s lips with his eyes, but he cannot make it out.

“What was that, Geralt?” he asks, voice shaking. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

He waits for the Witcher to reply, but there’s only silence.

“…Geralt?”

He feels Geralt’s hand slip away from him. It falls to the ground without resistance, like a pile of fresh snow.

∞

“Geralt!”

Jaskier lays him back against the wall of the cave; he slaps his cheeks, shakes him by the shoulders, calls his name over and over again as the color drains from his skin and any trace of warmth makes way to the cold and stillness. This can’t be happening: not here, not like this, and certainly not to Geralt of Rivia– no. No, he can’t die here, he just can’t, he has a _destiny_ –

“No, no, no, no, _no_ – Geralt, please, wake up–”

The bard’s head snaps downwards, in the direction of a small, metallic sound: on the ground, the wolf medallion spins like a coin and halts to a stop, the damaged chain spread out around it like a pair of broken wings. With trembling fingers, Jaskier picks it up.

Something snaps inside of him. The bard drags Geralt’s body onto his lap and cradles his head, stroking long lines into his hair, rocking in place as he feels his own body being wracked by breathless sobs.

Jaskier doesn’t know how much time passes until he feels another presence inside the cave. There’s the scent of magic, ozone and rain clashing with the dying light of the sun filtering from the broken roof of the cave – it had been a perfectly terse day.

Yennefer gasps behind him, falling to her knees.

Jaskier doesn’t turn around. He just calls Geralt’s name over and over until his vision starts going dizzy.

When he sees her come up next to him, he finally recognizes her. “Help him,” he begs, voice barely more than a whisper. “Please. You have to save him. You can…” he tries to focus his eyes and finds that he can’t. “Do that… right…?”

The last thing he feels is the cold earth against his bloody temple, and the sensation of Geralt’s body slipping away from his fingers.

∞

He doesn’t remember much from the days that follow. Most times he wakes up howling, trying to throw up and feeling his throat seize – and then Yennefer’s voice is there, muttering an incantation and sending him right back to sleep.

“Where is he?” he remembers asking one day, in a rare moment of consciousness.

Yennefer doesn’t respond, not at first. But Jaskier keeps pleading and one day, finally, she tells him.

“I brought him back to Kaer Morhen. But then they– they gave me some bullshit about unmarked graves, so I just– I kept going until I found a place.” She doesn’t turn to meet his gaze. “One of his swords was broken, but the other one– it’s right there if…” she hesitates. If Jaskier were lucid enough, he’d realize how strange it is to see her like this. But he’s not lucid. He’s numb, like he never left that mountain. “You know. If you want to keep it.”

Jaskier doesn’t want anything. He just wants the nightmare to be over.

Nevertheless, once Yennefer mutters Elder words at his side and takes her leave, Jaskier finds himself picking up the sword. Its weight feels oddly familiar.

He leaves the inn that day, setting out into the woods with Roach without a destination in mind.

Maybe they’ll just keep going, he thinks, for a while.

Maybe they’ll just keep going.

∞

His music has run dry. Jaskier has tried picking up his lute, really, he has; but he can hardly bring himself to strum a few notes before sickness overcomes him and he has to put it away again.

It doesn’t bode well for their finances – it’s not like Roach can pull her own weight here, now, can she? – and he knows it. So, when one day he passes by a small town’s news board and sees an advert there for the slaying of an unidentified monster, he thinks, _why not_?

There’s a thousand ‘why not’s, but he can’t seem to visualize any of them as he makes his way into the woods and near the swamp. He’s got the gear, after all, right? And he’s seen it countless times already. And, well, if anything were to go wrong, that wouldn’t be much of a loss anyway, would it? He’s not Geralt. He doesn’t have a _destiny_. He’s not indispensable to anyone – and perhaps he never really was.

When he finds himself face to face with the monster, halfway between a spider and a scorpion and as big as a pony, and the absurdity of it all dawns on him, he cannot bring himself to stop laughing. A bard playing Witcher: now there’s a story not even worth singing for coin.

 _Guess this is it. See you soon, Geralt_ , he calls inside his own mind, and for a moment relief washes over him.

Then, before he can blink, his arms move of their own accord. The creature impales itself onto his sword – _Geralt’s_ sword – and with one, swift motion, Jaskier slashes it in half. It falls on the ground with a sickening _thud_ , claw slipping out of the bard’s chest.

Jaskier feels like he just snapped out of a trance. Only a few seconds go by before he empties his stomach on the forest floor.

∞

He tries again.

First, it’s a Bruxa, who sucks him dry and makes the mistake of turning her back on the body. When she hears the leaves rustle behind her, it’s already too late.

Then, it’s a swarm of arachnae, feasting on his body as he pokes them open one by one. The bard collapses on the floor of the cave, and wakes up fresh as a rose the next morning.

“C’mon, girl,” he tells Roach afterwards, wanting to test his theory, “hit me. Right here, right in the chest. I know you secretly want to.”

Roach doesn’t give him the satisfaction, but a manticore does.

One day, going through one of Roach’s bags, he finds a set of vials filled with liquid of different colors and consistencies. He knows what each one of them does; has seen them in action too often, asked about them countless times.

On the next job, he takes one. It burns him from the inside out, but it doesn’t kill him. The effects linger for three whole days, however, so he tries not to make a habit of it.

When a bandit – an actual, human bandit – takes his head clean off the rest of his body, Jaskier thinks for sure that this time he’s done it, this time he’s free.

He wakes up to Yennefer asking him ‘which maiden was it this time?’ as she sews his head back onto his neck.

Oddly enough, his run-ins with Yennefer of Vengerberg only seem to increase in frequency since he’s started dying on a weekly basis. He’s fairly horrible to her, pushing her away at every twist and turn and refusing to answer any of her questions beyond the bounds of banter.

As the months go by, people start calling him a ridiculous name. A young bard tries to follow him into a haunted castle; he leaves him tied to a tree outside.

“Should’ve called you _Sourwolf_ ,” he complains when Jaskier cuts him loose the following morning.

“Should’ve called me nothing at all,” Jaskier replies. He turns away to head back into town; this time, the bard stays put.

∞

Every time he closes his eyes, Jaskier dreams of him.

He dreams of that wretched day up on the mountain. Sometimes it’s just a memory of the events, scarily accurate in the details: the cold, the light, the chaos. The crippling powerlessness. Those dreams always end with Geralt whispering words Jaskier can’t hear, with Jaskier’s eyes scanning the Witcher’s face for clues, any clue, but then it’s too late, his eyes are closing and–

Other times, the dreams are crueler. By some stroke of luck, Jaskier manages to distract the Golem long enough for Geralt to get to his potions and deal a fatal blow. As the beast crumbles into dust, Jaskier throws his arms around the Witcher’s neck and doesn’t let go. The first few times, waking up from those dreams, there would be a handful of seconds in the hazy morning light in which Jaskier would sigh with relief, because Geralt was alive. He was okay. He would open his eyes then, to look for him by his side in the camp, heart swelling–

A couple of times, Jaskier is able to catch Geralt’s words, but they are ice. “This is all your fault,” he tells him, eyes black and face bloody. “I’m dead because of you. You’re _weak_.” Waking up from those dreams is almost worse than staying inside them, because the truth isn’t all that different.

But there are good dreams, too. Memories of their time together. Jaskier cherishes those, even though he’s a mess of tears come morning.

And then there are odd dreams. Some nights – most nights, even – Jaskier closes his eyes under the stars and opens them again to a different landscape: it’s not the mountain and it’s not some forest, either.

It’s a vineyard.

The first time, Jaskier is certain he’s never been to a place like that before: without question, he’d remember it. There’s something to the way the light catches the grass, the way the grapes hang heavy and red from the branches, the way the breeze carries the scent of the sea.

Jaskier walks until he reaches a little house, with red faded walls and a porch bathed in sunlight. And there he is.

“Jaskier.”

In these ones, he knows that he is dreaming. And it kills him, because the way Geralt talks, the way he says his _name_ – they’re the most realistic ones of all. He wishes he could believe the fantasy, even for a little while, even if it would destroy him in the morning.

“Hey, Geralt.”

What’s more, these ones seem to be connected, like a story. Each time, Jaskier will remember the previous ones, and it seems Geralt does, too. The passage of time feels real, too, with only one difference: night and day are reversed. If he falls asleep after sundown, like right now, the vineyard will be bathed in beautiful golden light; if it’s after dawn, a carpet of stars will cover the hills, and Geralt will tease him for having passed out in the middle of the day.

Sometimes, Geralt will beckon him inside the house and pour him a cup sweet, sweet wine, asking for his opinion. Other times, Jaskier will walk around the vineyard only to find the Witcher knee-deep in grapes. “How’d you think wine was made?” he’ll ask then, a sceptic eyebrow and a smile hidden away behind a scowl. Jaskier will jump in, and by nightfall they’ll be panting and sweaty and drenched in grape juice, and go wash off in a stream. Jaskier never feels lighter than he does after dreams like that, spent chucking grapes at the Witcher’s head and seeing him deflect all of them with effortless ease, pretending not to notice – sometimes even sending them right back and hitting him in the face.

When they’re down at the stream, they help each other get all the juice out of their hair. Geralt’s is way harder, because it’s longer and it makes the purple stand out more; also, he complains endlessly.

“Stop pulling,” he’ll growl, slow and naturally threatening.

“I’ll stop pulling when you stop moving around,” the bard will reply, stern like a mother.

It shouldn’t take Geralt half that time to clean out Jaskier’s hair, but it always feels more or less even.

Jaskier closes his eyes, relaxing into Geralt’s surprisingly gentle touch, and lets him trace nonsense into his scalp until the sun paints long, red shadows on the surface of the water.

“Mmhh,” Jaskier whines when the Witcher’s hands move away.

“And that,” Geralt replies, with an even tone, but clearly pleased with himself, “is how it’s done. No pulling.”

“Five more minutes?” the bard pleads then, cracking open an eye, and sometimes it even works.

In the dreams, Jaskier never mentions what happened. Maybe he’s just being superstitious, but he doesn’t want to risk it; doesn’t want to ruin the one thing he has left to look forward to. Even if it’s just an illusion.

And yet, sometimes dream Geralt will make strange, pointed comments that make him think that, perhaps, he knows anyway. When he pulls his clothes back on, the Witcher glances at him for a long enough time that Jaskier almost flushes. “What?” he prompts him, feeling flustered.

Geralt just shakes his head. “Just thinking that leather doesn’t suit you,” he comments, and there’s a hint of sadness in his voice that tugs painfully at the bard’s heart.

Jaskier just pulls on the last of his armor and looks elsewhere.

∞

“I never thought I’d say this,” Geralt says one day, as they’re sipping wine on the porch flooded in sunset, “but I miss your damn lute.”

“Liar,” Jaskier replies, scooting closer. He rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder. “No one misses my lute.”

Geralt looks at him then, an emotion buried deep in his catlike eyes that Jaskier cannot quite place. It’s enough to knock the breath out of his lungs, slowing down time.

“I bet they do,” he says, finally, and turns back to watch the sun set. “Who’s left to play now, anyway? Valdo Marx?”

“Fuck ‘im,” Jaskier says around a deep gulp of wine. “Hope he chokes on his own flute.” That, at least, seems to dissolve the tension, making Geralt snort with laughter.

As the sun sinks below the horizon, Jaskier nuzzles more closely. He feels an arm wrap around his shoulders and buries himself deeper against the Witcher’s body.

“Getting tired?” Geralt asks, half-teasing.

“Never,” Jaskier yawns. As his consciousness drifts back to the dreadful world of the living, he feels the Witcher’s fingers trace geometric shapes into his hair.

It feels familiar, but it’s gone before he can remember why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #FuckValdoMarx


	3. The Way You Wear Your Heart, The Way You Hold My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more to go! Watch out for mild gore on this one. If you've ever seen Misfits, this won't faze you.

_‘Cause you’re fearless in your love  
_ _Devoted to compassion  
_ _The highest state of art  
_ _And you’re piercing in your truth  
_ _Sincere in all intention  
_ _The way you wear your heart_  
_The way you hold my heart  
_ _My fierce friend_

(“The Sweet Escape” – Poets of the Fall)

When Jaskier wakes up in the early morning light, it’s to the sight of Yennefer crying.

“Hey,” he calls softly, throwing a careful glance at the princess to check that she’s still asleep. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

It occurs to him that Yennefer has seen him in all kinds of states, this past year: shock, rage, devastation. But he has never, not once, seen her like this.

He props himself up on one elbow and reaches for her out of instinct, brushing a few strands of hair out of her face. She’s huddled between him and Ciri, lying on her side, hands close to her chest and eyes puffy. Except for the occasional, very quiet sniffle, she isn’t making a sound.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out then, low and broken. Jaskier can see the frustration in her eyes: she’s vulnerable, and she hates it. Now there’s the Yennefer he knows.

“What for?” Jaskier asks, stroking her temple and forgetting for a minute that he’s supposed to be terrified of her. “I’m the one should be sorry. I _am_.”

Yennefer shakes her head, and her hair spreads out on the pillow. “I should’ve gotten there sooner. I could’ve– all it takes to fry a Golem is one single fucking bolt of lightning. If only I’d been there–”

“And how could you have known?” Jaskier says, forcing himself to smile. “You’re a mage, you’re not omnipotent. And please, don’t hit me for saying that.”

That gets a broken laugh out of her. A small victory.

“I’m just glad you got there when you did,” Jaskier murmurs, running a hand through her hair in a slow, soothing motion. “You dealt with– Gods, everything that needed to be dealt with. You were amazing, Yen, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help.”

She brings her slender fingers up to his hand, and covers it with hers.

“Stupid bond,” she sniffles, rolling her head and trying to push back the tears. “Useless fucking thing. Warning me the second there’s nothing left to–” she bites back another sob, looking elsewhere. It’s taking all of her self-control to keep up what’s left of her composure; Jaskier isn’t going to get in the way of that. He sits up, giving her the space she needs to collect herself.

“You did save me, though,” he says after a while, quietly. “I know it’s not the same. If I could trade places, believe me, I would, but– if it hadn’t been for you, I would’ve bled out right beside him.” When he puts it like that, it doesn’t sound like such a bad way to go, but he’s not going to share that thought with Yennefer right now.

Yennefer props herself up, folding her legs beneath her. “That’s the thing, Jaskier. I didn’t save you.”

Jaskier is about to disagree, when Yennefer holds a finger up. “Hold on. Let me finish.” The room is still filled with shadows, and it’s hard to catch Yennefer’s gaze, but Jaskier turns to her and shifts just enough that the light from the window can outline her features in the dark.

“I was going to heal you,” she explains. “You were bleeding, delirious and in shock. As soon as I got there, you just… fell over.” The picture is unflattering enough that Jaskier has to suppress a wince. Definitely not how he wanted to go down in history. “But then I put my hands over you and– you were getting better on your own. That’s why I always assumed that he– he must’ve put a healing spell or a protection on you or something. That’s why I kept asking. Except that… it didn’t stop there.”

Jaskier nods. He’s suspected as much for a while – that his apparent immortality must come from somewhere, along with his newly acquired Witcher-y prowess.

Yen’s eyes light up then, as if she just remembered something.

“Jaskier. Head, now.”

Jaskier hesitates. He clears his throat. “Yennefer, although I am flattered, need I remind you that there is a child present–”

“Don’t make me hit you, bard,” she snaps. “Just give me your head. I need to check something.”

Although confused, Jaskier complies. The mage’s fingers drift through his locks and inspect the soft skin beneath, searching. After a while, they rest on the back of his neck.

“Yes!” Yennefer whispers in victory.

“What’s going on?” a sleepy voice calls from the other side of the bed.

Both their heads snap in the direction of the voice. The princess of Cintra is there, awake and peering up at them with quizzical eyes.

“Nothing,” Yennefer replies with a quick recover. “Just checking for lice. You’re clean,” she says then, turning back to Jaskier.

Jaskier gives her a brief look that can, in fact, talk. “Gee. Thanks, Yen. That’s a relief,” he deadpans.

“Your turn, princess,” Yennefer says, more chipper than the bard has ever seen her. “Melitele knows Nilfgaardians don’t love their baths.”

Despite two very suspicious eyebrows, Ciri complies. Jaskier supposes the fear of having brought back anything at all from that wretched place must outweigh any residual distrust. Or maybe, deep down, she’s simply still a princess.

She lets Yennefer run her hands through her hair for a very long time. If the mage takes the opportunity to run a complete check on her health and body, Ciri doesn’t seem to notice.

The princess keeps her gaze trained on Jaskier the entire time. Every so often, her eyes drift over to the medallion hanging from the bard’s neck. She doesn’t ask yet, and Jaskier is grateful, even though he knows she will.

Still, every time she makes herself look away, sadness and confusion dance across her face like a couple of old lovers. It makes his heart clench – a feeling he thought he’d long left behind.

∞

Although Yennefer’s stolen mansions are lovely, they cannot stay there forever.

The best way to keep Cirilla safe is to keep moving, so that’s what they do. The princess is more than used to life on the road, and Yennefer’s wards keep them hidden from magical sight; all they have to do is avoid the swarms of soldiers patrolling every inch of land.

That seems to work well enough, until one day Yennefer trips over a root and almost bashes her skull on a rock.

“Gods, when’s the last time you _slept_?” Jaskier asks after yanking her back.

Yennefer makes an angry, non-committal noise. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, no,” Jaskier replies, pointing a finger at the mage. “I know that tone, and you most definitely are _not_ fine.”

Yennefer responds to his gesture by staring daggers. “I will snap your hand in half and feed it to Roach.”

“Heard that one, too,” the bard sighs, but promptly returns his hand to his hip. “Tell you what, why don’t we set up camp here for the night? What do you think, Ciri?”

Cirilla takes one look at the dark circles around Yennefer’s eyes and starts nodding.

“I can’t keep the wards up if I sleep,” the mage whispers through gritted teeth near Jaskier’s ear as he’s setting up.

“Lucky for you, _I_ have had a decent four hours a night for the past few days,” Jaskier says, which he realizes, as he hears it out loud, is not actually as good a number as he’s grown used to thinking. “I’ll keep an eye out for Ciri. You just focus on getting some much, _much_ -needed beauty sleep.”

Too tired to argue any further, Yennefer simply flips him off.

When they’re all set, Ciri plops down next to Jaskier. “Why don’t you ever play?” she asks, nodding towards his lute.

“Ah,” he says, following her gaze. “I’m afraid I’ve been going through a bit of an inspiration drought. Not much music left in me.” He offers her an apologetic smile.

Ciri, like most children, is curious to a fault. Jaskier finds that it’s both adorable and a tremendous inconvenience.

“Don’t you still know some old songs?” she presses on. It’s an innocent request, although her insistence betrays her royal upbringing. Jaskier shakes his head and laughs: of course the granddaughter of the Lioness of Cintra isn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.

He picks up the lute, turning it over in his hands. It looks different, wood dyed black and cords gleaming with silver, but it still has the same, familiar weight. “I suppose I do.”

The first strums are tentative: going from daily practice to the rare, monster-slaying ballad has taken its toll, and his fingertips have gone soft in all the wrong places.

Geralt had once implied that he didn’t like music because it was emotion in liquid form: everything a Witcher was supposed to stay away from. As a rule, there was no music in Kaer Morhen around the trainees. After Geralt’s death, Jaskier saw the wisdom in that: music turns too easily into a conduit for a person’s heart, and the bard soon realized he needed to keep that particular door shut if he wanted to stay sane.

And yet there’s something in Cirilla’s inquisitive eyes – innocent still, despite everything, – in her presence at his side, as she waits with bated breath, that tugs at his chest and at the corners of his lips.

“You know,” he says, leaning back against the trunk behind him and picking the lute’s cords in a practice jam, “When your mother found out about you, I was there. So, in a way, we’ve known each other for a very long time.”

Cirilla’s eyes light up with surprise. “You were?”

Jaskier hums in confirmation. “I was playing at her engagement. Great crowd, although some of the nobles didn’t like me much.”

“Why was that?”

“Oh, uhm. I wouldn’t know, really,” Jaskier clears his throat, quickly veering off that particular subject. “Luckily, I was with a friend. He watched out for me the whole night.”

It’s strange, how perceptive kids can be. Ciri peers into his eyes quietly and asks, hesitantly: “Was it Geralt?”

Hearing his name still stings, but Jaskier does his best not to let it show. It wouldn’t be fair to Ciri. She has a right to ask about him, a right to know something more than the few sentences they’d been able to string together to confirm her worst fears.

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, gazing far away. “Complained endlessly about it, mind you, but still… he saved my skin more than once. And not just that night.”

He finds his fingers moving on their own accord around an old, familiar melody.

“What was he like?” the princess asks. Her tone is careful, gentle: it lets the bard know that he doesn’t have to answer. Maybe that’s precisely why Jaskier chooses to.

“How about I tell you with a song?”

He can’t do much to lessen Ciri’s loss – could never do anything to lessen his own, after all – but it occurs to him that maybe, just maybe, he could do this for her.

Jaskier’s voice rises softly in the night.

“ _When a humble bard graced a ride-along…_ ”

∞

He sings until Ciri is asleep. Sings of adventures and happy memories, of elves and dragons, and a man called the White Wolf. After Ciri’s eyes flutter closed, he sings a little more to the stars.

Afterwards, he feels spent, a strain that has nothing to do with physical tiredness taking over each limb of his body.

The sight of Yennefer stirring is what finally cuts down the last string of Jaskier’s consciousness. With the changing of the guard, Jaskier drifts off to sleep.

Late afternoon greets him on the other side of his eyelids. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet air of the vineyard.

“Where are we?”

Jaskier startles. He looks down and Ciri’s there, by his side, peering curiously across the landscape with a hand over her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun.

Huh.

“A dream, dear,” Jaskier replies. He’s never met anyone else here aside from Geralt; to find that he’s carried the thought of the princess of Cintra with him through sleep is unusual. Cirilla looks very real indeed, down to the small scar on her cheek from where she’d cut herself against a branch the day before.

Before he can wonder any further, leaves rustle behind them at the edge of the woods.

Both Jaskier and Ciri turn around to the sight of Geralt standing perfectly still with a bunch of chopped wood in his arms. His eyes go wide as they come to rest on Ciri. The princess’ reaction is very much the same.

The wood clatters to the ground at the same time that Ciri starts running.

They crash into each other and hug for what feels like ages. Jaskier feels his heart do a somersault, and suddenly feels the need to look away. To give them some privacy for this moment, even if it’s all a dream.

Geralt locks eyes with him then, expression soft and raw. ‘Thank you,’ he mouths silently. It strikes Jaskier as odd, but he doesn’t question it.

It’s incredible, Jaskier thinks, how much love there can be between two people who have never met each other, but share a bond stronger than life itself.

“I knew it,” Cirilla finally says, voice frayed at the edges. “I knew you couldn’t be dead. I _sensed_ you.”

Her words make Jaskier’s throat close up. How he wishes that were true.

Something strange happens then. For a brief moment, Geralt’s eyes stare straight into Jaskier’s and fill with what looks like panic.

“That night, when he came to get me,” Ciri continues, eyes darting briefly to Jaskier and then drifting up, to stare into the Witcher’s. “You were there too. How?”

The whole conversation rings odd to Jaskier’s ears. He doesn’t fully understand what’s happening: the meaning behind Ciri’s sentences, the panicked glance the Witcher shoots him as her words hang in the air. It looks strange.

It looks _real_.

It’s a dream unlike any other: there’s none of the linearity he’s grown used to, none of the idyllic separation between the world inside his mind and the world waiting out there. It’s like a beautiful bubble has suddenly burst and the bard is struggling to make out the true shape of the light that once ran along its curve.

Geralt must see the confusion in Jaskier’s eyes, because his own are suddenly filled with a whole range of emotions: hesitation, pain, regret, and what feels impossibly close to fear.

_Never thought I’d say this, but I miss your damn lute._

It’s hard to stop the thought that makes way into his mind, then.

_Liar. No one misses my lute._

A question rises to Jaskier’s lips. It’s an absurd one, but it’s also extremely simple.

 _I bet they do_.

Before he can voice it, however, the dream shatters.

He opens his eyes to the sight of Yennefer shaking him awake, cursing under her breath as too many footsteps grow far too close.

They jump through a portal, Roach giving a scared neigh as her hooves cross over into the darkness.

∞

They’ve been traveling aimlessly for days, on constant alert. The runs-in with Nilfgaard’s soldiers have become more frequent than they’d anticipated: right now, surrounded by corpses and impaled to a tree, Jaskier contemplates just how underrated death is.

“It’s okay, darling,” he blurts out, blood bubbling from his mouth. He brushes Ciri’s hair out of her face as she sobs inconsolably: she had panicked and she had _screamed_ and everyone had gone flying, including Yennefer and Jaskier.

Yennefer had landed on her feet; the bard hadn’t.

“Not my first impaling. I’ll be… urgh… good as new…”

“You might want to pass out for this,” Yennefer warns, anchoring one hand around his shoulder and another on his hip. After all, it would be unfortunate if he were to break in half right in front of Ciri’s eyes – and a pain to sew back together.

Ciri looks at them like they’re crazy, calmly dealing with a deadly injury like it’s a scraped knee. And yet, the dynamic between them feels so familiar, so practiced, it convinces her that maybe they aren’t insane or lying, or both.

“Good idea,” Jaskier groans, and his body goes limp.

∞

The dream is frayed at the edges. It’s nighttime in the vineyard: a round, silver moon hangs high in the sky, full but for a sliver.

Oddly enough, the pain has followed him this time.

He braces himself against a tree, and sees Geralt rush out of the cabin.

“Jaskier!”

The Witcher catches him before he can fall to the ground. “Hi there,” he huffs between labored breaths, fingers digging into the back of Geralt’s shirt for balance. “Sorry. Don’t think I’m quite all the way here this time.”

Images flash behind Jaskier’s eyes. There’s Yennefer, violet eyes fixed on him, her eyebrows drawn in concentration as she works his body off the sharp branch; and Ciri, too, hands up to her mouth in shock but refusing to look away. The bard feels guilt pool in his stomach: there goes more nightmare fuel for her.

“ _Ciri, don’t look now. I have to get the splinters out. It’s going to get ugly._ ”

“ _I’m so sorry…! It’s all my fault… What if he dies?!_ ”

“ _Don’t worry, he’s tried. He’s not particularly good at it._ ”

Geralt shakes the bard back to him, slapping his cheeks lightly. “Jaskier. Jaskier, listen to me.”

“Mmhh?” he replies, Geralt’s face coming in and out of focus against the backdrop of the night sky.

The Witcher grabs his face with both hands and says, slow and clear, but with urgency: “Kaer Morhen. That’s where you need to bring Ciri. That’s where I was going to take her.”

There it is again, words breaking through the barrier between the world of the dead and the world of the living. And Geralt’s eyes, looking more pained than any mental projection has any right to be. Oh, Jaskier had a question about this, didn’t he?

“Say, Geralt…” he begins, locking eyes with the Witcher. “And please, don’t think I’ve gone mad, but…” he trails off then, wincing at a vicious pang of pain right in the middle of his stomach. Gods, what was he going to ask again?

Yellow eyes stare down at him, filled with hurt and guilt and everything a Witcher should never, ever feel.

“You’ll be safe there,” he says, finally. “Please, Jaskier, you have to remember. Kaer Morhen. My home.”

Jaskier manages a slow nod and the Witcher pulls him close.

“ _Alright, all done. You can look now._ ”

“I’m sorry,” he hears Geralt murmur into his hair.

“ _Is he really going to be okay?_ ”

“What for…?”

“ _See for yourself. Three, two, one…_ ”

“Geralt, what for…?”

The dream dissolves into mist. When Jaskier opens his eyes again, two words come out of his mouth like an incantation.

“Kaer Morhen.”

It’s all he manages to say before passing out again, and this time, it’s dreamless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #YenneferStealsHouses


	4. So Keep Me Alive

_But if the Earth ends in fire  
_ _And the seas are frozen in time  
_ _There’ll be just one survivor  
_ _The memory that I was yours  
_ _And you were mine  
_ _So keep me alive_

(“Immortal” – Marina and the Diamonds)

_nine months ago_

When Yennefer is certain that Jaskier is breathing, she leaves the inn and portals back to the mountain. It has barely been an hour.

It’s not easy to look, but she makes herself do it.

She kneels beside the person who had once been her lover, the person she had been bound to by much more than magic, and keeps the tears locked inside.

They always say people ‘look like they’re sleeping’, but Yennefer has known for a long time that’s not true. When a person dies, they don’t look like a person anymore. They look like a thing.

An empty, broken shell.

So it comes to her as a surprise, when she lets her eyes travel over Geralt’s face, that he looks the most relaxed she’s ever seen him, even more than in the arms of sleep. Free, at last, of his burdens.

There’s no purpose to it, but she heals him. She heals his body until flesh and bone knit back together and blood is a distant memory on the Witcher’s pale skin. Until he really could be sleeping.

But it doesn’t matter, Yennefer tells herself as she lays him on the back of a cart and leads the horse – _his_ horse – through the portal.

It doesn’t matter because he’s not sleeping.

∞

When Yennefer first sets foot in Kaer Morhen, she comes across an old Witcher named Vesemir. He bears the symbol of Geralt’s guild, so Yen leads him to the back of the cart as a couple of other Witchers peer at them from afar.

For a long moment, the Witcher’s eyes rest on Geralt with an unreadable expression. Yennefer has years of experience in reading through Witcher lines, but even without that she would’ve known what it was: grief. A mirror of her own.

Which is why, when Vesemir suggests that Geralt be buried in an unmarked grave, she loses it.

She doesn’t remember her words exactly, but by the time she’s done saying them, she’s climbing on Roach and leading her up the mountain without as much as glancing back at the Witcher, who regards her in silence as she disappears into the woods.

Fuck Witchers. Fuck their insane cult. Geralt had been _human_.

And humans deserve a proper burial.

∞

When Yennefer finds a clear spot near the mountaintop, it’s possible that she gets carried away.

It’s possible, she admits, that the grief locked deep inside her finds another way out, in the form of a flurry of ice and snow and sky-high walls.

And it’s unlikely, but not impossible, that it’s sentiment that leads her to enchant the ice so that it will never melt, and encase Geralt inside it so he will never come to harm again.

So that, at least in death, she can grant him the protection she hasn’t been able to give him in life. Safe, at last – and forever the same.

Before leading Roach back into the portal, she takes one last look at the motionless form of Geralt of Rivia, and mutters a word of goodbye.

It’s not until she’s on the other side that the tears start flowing.

_now_

**_Book of Magical Myths  
_ _by Barnard Asclepius, mage of Ban Ard_ **

∞

_An Elder symbol. It represents the endless cycle of life and death._

**Numerology**

_As the symbol is a variant of the number eight, numerological studies apply.  
_ _In numerology, the number eight is said to hold the following meanings:_

Night and Day  
Right and Wrong  
Inner Wisdom  
Compassion  
Giving and Receiving  
Ability to See  
Timelessness  
Eternity

 **The Legend**

_The centuries have molded the legend into a nursery rhyme.  
_ _Its title can vary according to the region, town, or even family, but the words are strangely consistent._

_~_

_Little lady of the lake  
_ _Keeping everyone awake  
_ _With the laments of your mind  
_ _Too far gone for you to find_

_Out the window, every day  
_ _Kinder than the summer air  
_ _Sings the robin in the morning  
_ _Soothing your perpetual mourning_

_Out the window, that one day  
_ _Whistles arrow, sharp and straight  
_ _It goes through the robin’s nest  
_ _Piercing the fair lady’s chest_

_Lady feels that death is near  
_ _And yet, something else she hears  
_ _For the bird is singing on  
_ _The last of his robin songs_

_‘Little bird, the song you sing  
_ _Will not mend your broken wing  
_ _Nor bring solace to your heart  
_ _Blooming bright and spread apart’_

_‘But it’ll carry you,’ he says  
_ _‘Gently as you fly away’  
_ _‘That’s what you would do tonight,  
_ _With the last breaths of your life?’_

_At the window now she stands  
_ _And she stretches out her hands  
_ _Picking up the wounded bird  
_ _Singing still without a word_

_She draws circles on her friend  
_ _Two, one for each of them  
_ _Then she murmurs magic words  
_ _Tinted red with bright blood drops_

_Tilts his head the curious bird  
_ _But he says the magic word  
_ _As her life into him flows  
_ _The young lady’s heartbeat slows_

_‘Thank you,’ breathlessly she sighs  
_ _And the bird just asks her, ‘why?’  
_ _Smiles the lady from above  
_ _‘Because you have shown me love’_

_The small robin flies away  
_ _Wings outstretched across the air_  
_And his next sweet song of choice  
_ _Echoes with the lady’s voice_

 _~_

**The Ritual**

_Of course, such magic is not possible. Many mages of vast capabilities, including myself, have tried to perform it, experimenting the ritual on dying soldiers.  
_ _It is, beyond any doubt, a magical myth._

**The Words**

_For the sake of keeping record, the incantation goes as follows:  
_ _…_

Jaskier puts down the book with a sharp, deep intake of breath.

Yennefer looks at him in silence.

“It says here it’s just a myth,” the bard says, voice barely more than a whisper. His eyes are absent, gazing far away.

They had arrived in Kaer Morhen a few days ago, following Jaskier’s suggestion and Yennefer’s portals. There, they’d ran into an old Witcher who remembered Yennefer – albeit not fondly – from her visit almost a year past. He escorted them back at the castle and advised Jaskier to keep the medallion out of sight: his guild did not react well to imposters.

Jaskier later discovered the Witcher’s name: Vesemir.

Staying in Kaer Morhen had finally allowed Yennefer to drag Jaskier to the library to finish their conversation while Ciri was resting.

“It says a lot of things,” Yennefer replies. “I’ve met enough mages of Ban Ard in my lifetime to know they don’t appreciate looking like fools, especially if it’s true. Nothing better to disguise a failed ritual than calling it an ‘experiment’ and a fairy tale.”

Jaskier glances at her sideways. “How many of the _myths_ in this book can you perform?”

“Almost half,” she replies dismissively. “Haven’t tried the necromancy ones yet.”

The bard just nods.

Yennefer leans across the table and draws the symbol with her fingers. There are corners, in the library at Kaer Morhen, that feel like they haven’t been dusted off in centuries. However, in this case it proves handy, even though she has to fight the urge to sneeze.

Jaskier stares at Yennefer’s drawing for a long time, a sideways-looking eight etched in the thick layer of dust.

He stares and stares and then, finally, he rises from his chair.

“I need one more favor, Yen,” he says, determination seeping from his voice. “I need you to punch me in the face.”

∞

“Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier groans, massaging his nose as the familiar landscape of the vineyard comes into view. “That was quick.”

“Yeah, it was clearly on her bucket list,” an unimpressed voice says behind him.

The bard takes a deep breath before turning around.

It takes one look. One good, long look at the person standing in front of him, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed and a fondness in his eyes that makes Jaskier’s heart ache.

One look, unclouded by grief, and he knows.

“Witcher,” the bard says, taking a step forward as Geralt does the same. “I need to ask you something. And I beg you to be very, very careful with your answer, because I am in no mood for games.”

Geralt lets his arms fall at his sides and nods, waiting.

Jaskier hates the way his voice breaks around the words. “Are you here?”

This is it, Jaskier thinks: the moment that could break him. There will be no recovering from this if everything he, Yennefer, and even Ciri have pieced together turns out to be the last trick of his mind.

If it is, he’s done with Geralt of Rivia. He’s going to walk to his grave, leave the medallion, leave his sword, leave Kaer Morhen at the first hint of spring with Yennefer and Ciri, and never think of the Witcher again. He’s going to make himself forget by any means necessary: he’ll take sleeping draughts to evade the dreams, keep his mind focused on the people he’s protecting rather than the monsters he’s fighting, train himself into numbness until the lyrics to _Toss a Coin_ in another bard’s mouth stir nothing in him. He’s going to bury Jaskier the bard and he’s going to survive as whoever he needs to be.

It’s a dreadful thought, but he means every part of it.

Geralt’s eyes turn soft and fill with something so deep, so raw, Jaskier couldn’t name it if he tried.

And then he speaks.

_nine months ago_

“C’mon, there _must_ be a food you like best!”

Geralt is about to reply ‘beer’ without missing a beat, when the bard adds: “And no, beer doesn’t count.”

He feels a smile tug at the corner of his lips. Half of the bard’s conversation during their journeys has no point whatsoever, and yet Geralt finds that he doesn’t mind it as much as he used to. Jaskier’s voice, in song or soliloquy, has become a part of the Path just like camping out in the woods, stopping at taverns, and sleeping under the stars. Not that he’d ever tell him as much: Geralt would never hear the end of it.

The path is filled with fresh snow, but it’s only a veil, crunching softly beneath their boots. They make their way into a cave filled with sunlight, the roof worn and peppered with holes. It was supposed to be a shortcut through the mountain, but they soon find that the way through has been blocked by ice and debris.

Geralt doesn’t sense the Golem until it’s too late.

One moment, he’s listening to Jaskier talk his ear off, and the next he’s shoving the bard out of the way as far as his strength will let him.

“Run!” he shouts, filling the air with Signs and guarding desperately against the Golem’s blows. There isn’t a cloud in the sky; he’s going to have to do this the hard way.

Jaskier, of course, does not run. And soon, he no longer can: the entrance collapses and the bard is locked in with two monsters fighting to the death, throwing rocks at the one to protect the other.

Geralt has been a Witcher for a long enough time to know when a battle is lost. It always creeps up on his kind, one way or another – _retirement_.

Some Witchers decide to let the monster who has bested them live, out of respect; others fight until their final breath to complete their mission, regardless of its success. There’s freedom in having nothing left to protect.

For Geralt, that is not the case.

He locks eyes with Jaskier and makes his choice.

∞

There’s warmth in his final moments, something every Witcher is taught not to expect.

Jaskier’s arms are an armor around him, desperate to shield him from what has already started.

Geralt forces his heavy eyelids open, following the familiar voice. Jaskier’s face is there, eyes impossibly blue and filled with every emotion on the planet: those very same eyes that have greeted him morning after morning for the better part of twenty years.

The bard speaks words of relief at the sight of his eyes opening, voice soft like a song, and Geralt finds himself calling his name.

“Jas… kier…”

Jaskier is so focused on him that he doesn’t even seem to notice the blood running down his temple, but Geralt does. Through the fog and the pain, Geralt feels only one impulse, a drive so strong death will have to wait.

He remembers then, with the strange clarity of dying men, an old lullaby his mother used to sing to him before bed. The story of a magic so ancient, most people didn’t know it, and even mages thought of it as a myth.

Geralt doesn’t care if that’s the case. Myths have come to life before him more times than he can count: they can do it one more time.

He draws a symbol on the back of Jaskier’s head, pulls him close, and murmurs the words, praying they reach the bard’s ears. It’s all he manages to do before everything starts going dark.

The last thing he hears is the sound of Jaskier’s voice, desperate and broken, calling out his name.

_now_

“I’m here,” Geralt says, firmly. “I don’t know how, or why, but…”

“I don’t care,” Jaskier cuts him off, and the next thing Geralt knows is that he’s being tackled to the ground. He lets out a surprised noise as he feels his knees buckle and his back hit the grass, but he doesn’t resist it.

Perhaps the past few months have made the bard stronger; they’ve certainly made him heavier. Regardless, the Witcher doesn’t mind. He strokes Jaskier’s hair out of habit as the bard soaks his shirt in tears, and does a barely decent job at biting back his own.

“For a second there, I thought you were going to punch me.”

Jaskier sniffles and dries his face with the back of his arm. “That’s not off the table yet, Witcher.”

Neither one of them is eager to break this moment. But after a while Jaskier’s face comes up and he says, voice still shaking: “Okay. Now I care. Tell me everything.”

Geralt eyes him with a sceptic eyebrow: he’s lying flat on Geralt’s body, like a big, comfortable cat. “Sure. Does your elbow need to be in my spleen for this?”

“You no longer have a spleen. Talk. And _don’t_ be stingy with the details.”

He does roll off eventually, lying on his side next to him and taking in the Witcher’s words like drops of water in a desert. There’s still fear in his eyes, deep and hard to shake, and Geralt does his best to keep his thoughts on his story and far away from the guilt sprouting inside his chest at the sight.

Geralt tells him how, the first time he opened his eyes in the vineyard – Corvo Bianco, a quaint little place in Toussaint he had come to own in life after an odd series of events – he was certain it had to be the afterlife.

“What made you realize it wasn’t?” Jaskier asks, peering into his eyes.

Geralt shoots him a meaningful look. “You.”

He tells him of the first time he’d sensed the presence of a monster, all those months ago, and stared at its claws through Jaskier’s eyes.

“I can’t explain how, but… I knew. I knew it was you on the other side.” Geralt’s expression turns into a scowl. “That was really stupid, Jaskier.”

“Eh, I guess,” the bard replies, elusive, not quite looking him in the eye. He didn’t think he’d ever have to face this conversation. “Wait. So that’s how I could make those moves? That was you?”

Geralt gives him a look that says _duh, obviously_.

“Hey!” Jaskier reacts. “I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class–”

“In monster fighting?” the Witcher says, raising an eyebrow.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Liberal arts,” he admits, gesticulating and stretching the ‘L’ as he mumbles. “But look, you’re missing the point!”

“The _point_ ,” Geralt half-growls, “has seldom missed you. Be it claws, fangs, or swords.”

“Or trees,” Jaskier mutters.

“Yeah, or trees.”

Something flashes in the Witcher’s eyes then, a mixture of pain and concern as he gazes into Jaskier’s face. He almost keeps the words to himself – almost. “The first time, I thought for sure I’d failed. That you’d really died.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier calls, voice softer and full of remorse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

The Witcher reaches out then, running his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and tracing the familiar pattern on the back of his head. Whatever has happened is in the past. He’s here now. They’re both here.

Jaskier smiles as he recognizes the shape. “What’s up with that?” he asks playfully. “Reinforcing your magic?”

Geralt finds himself returning the smile. “Something like that.”

He tells him, then, how he figured out that everything that was happening was an… unforeseen side effect of the spell. Specifically, of someone with his mutations channeling his energy into a regular human.

“Yeah, no shit,” Jaskier comments. “I’m immortal, you’re in my head, and my hands can Witcher now.”

Geralt makes a face. “Barely.”

“Oh, come on! I exterminated a castle of Nilfgaardian guards!”

“I know. I was there.”

Even though he’s not going to stop poking him anytime soon, Geralt has to admit that, as time went on, there were fewer and fewer times in which his help was needed. Jaskier was a quick learner; he has a good arsenal of moves memorized by now. Not that he’s ever going to tell him that.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” the bard asks. “When I started coming here?”

The Witcher’s gaze wanders off. There’s a long pause as Geralt finds the words he’s looking for. “You seemed happy here,” he settles on. “Happier than… out there. I didn’t want to ruin it for you. Didn’t want to… make things worse.”

There’s so much more that he doesn’t know how to say, but Jaskier doesn’t need to hear it to know it. He nods quietly at him and in his eyes Geralt sees all the understanding he could hope for, and then some.

It’s so overwhelming he has to look away.

But then, Geralt feels a hand on his cheek, and turns back to see blue eyes staring at him with hesitation. “Are you really here?” Jaskier asks, voice unsteady, stroking along the line of his jaw. If Geralt were to say ‘no’ now, if the dream were to fray away, the Witcher knows he would shatter.

Geralt covers his hand with his own. Alive or dead, he still isn’t going to let that happen. “Yeah. I am.”

Jaskier gives a nod in response. “Good.”

Geralt does something then. He stares into the eyes of the one person stubborn enough to anchor him to the world, the one person whose visits he looks forward to more than anything; the one person he couldn’t bear to let go, even with his last breath lodged inside his lungs.

He looks at that impossible person, pulls him close, and kisses him.

Jaskier kisses him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: "Punch me in the face"  
> Yen: "I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext"
> 
> Also, yay, the reveal! Kudos to everyone who guessed it in the comments.  
> One chapter to go!
> 
> #YenneferGoesFullElsa #DorksBeKissing


	5. Say My Name

_Say my name  
_ _These colors come alive  
_ _In your heart and in your mind  
_ _I cross the borders of time_  
_Leaving today behind  
_ _To be with you again_

(“Say My Name” – Within Temptation)

“You know,” Jaskier says, when the stars start peeking out of the sky. He’s sprawled on top of Geralt and gives no sign of wanting to move, something Geralt can definitely appreciate better now that there’s no armor between them. “I think Yennefer kept your body.”

The Witcher arches an eyebrow at that unsettling piece of information. “What for? Potion ingredients?”

“No,” Jaskier laughs, although he can almost picture that. “I heard she went feral on your Witcher buddies. It seems they suggested an unmarked grave?”

“It’s the fate of all Witchers,” Geralt confirms, stroking the bard’s bare back.

“Well, she did not like that.”

Geralt tries to imagine the scene. He immediately feels sorry for everyone involved.

“So what? Am I in a trunk somewhere?” the Witcher jokes.

“Of course not, don’t be silly. You’re in a pyramid.”

Jaskier enjoys every single reaction that crosses his face. Geralt can see it all happen, but he still can’t stop himself.

“Why?” he manages to ask, halfway between perplexed and just plain disconcerted.

“‘Cause she probably thought you’d be too dead to complain,” Jaskier replies, playing with a stray lock of white hair. “A dangerous thing to assume.”

Geralt considers it for a moment. “Mmh. Her mistake.”

“It’s made of ice,” Jaskier continues, tilting his head up to meet his eyes. “I saw it on my way to the castle. Not the most discreet piece of magical architecture.”

He gives a long whistle. “Vesemir must’ve been pleased with that.”

“He was not,” the bard assures him.

There’s a pause then, which Jaskier takes advantage of to prop himself up and capture the Witcher’s lips in his own again. Now that he has permission, he isn’t planning on stopping anytime soon.

Once they break apart, Geralt asks: “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” the bard says, voice dropping low. “My guess is, your body’s still as good as new in there. We could look for a spell to bring you back. You know… if you wanted to.”

Jaskier’s tone is strangely even. There’s no pressure in it, no urgency.

“Assuming that’s even possible…” the Witcher starts, furrowing his brow. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s just…” the bard starts, then hesitates. It’s rare, seeing Jaskier look for the right words when he usually has enough for them both. “I’ve never seen you so at peace, Geralt. I would understand if…”

“If I wanted to retire?” Geralt supplies.

Jaskier gives a small smile. There’s a hint of sadness there, but it’s nothing compared to the relief that still washes over his features, smoothing out the tension and months-old lines of worry. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Geralt runs a thumb along the line of Jaskier’s cheekbone. Beneath the pain, the years, the exhaustion, he looks exactly the same as he did when they met for the first time, back in Posada. Buried deep underneath the grief and the hardened edges, there’s still that boy, filled with joy and hope and hunger for the world.

“There might not be a spell like that,” Geralt murmurs, hesitation seeping into his voice. Hurting Jaskier again is the last thing he wants, which is why he cannot let him hold on to false hope.

“If that’s the case,” Jaskier says, closing his eyes and burying his head in the crook of Geralt’s neck, “then I’m fine with it.”

Geralt blinks. “You are?”

The bard nods into his shoulder. “All this time, I thought I’d lost you. Frankly, I’m still terrified to wake up and find out this was all a dream.” His voice shakes as he says it, and Geralt feels his heart clench. His emotion-suppression training was never of much use when it came to Jaskier. “I saw you die, Geralt. And yet… here we are.”

“Here we are,” Geralt agrees, tilting Jaskier’s chin up.

“Whatever comes next,” the bard says, eyes impossibly blue in the moonlight, “I’m okay with it. As long as I don’t lose you again… I’ll always be okay with it.”

Geralt rolls them over until he’s on top of Jaskier. It still feels odd, to be wanted so thoroughly, but death has brought him a new kind of clarity. The Witcher decides he isn’t going to question the good things in his life (or after-life) anymore. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, with an air of reassurance and finality, and bends down to kiss his bard.

Jaskier moans into Geralt’s lips. He locks his legs around the Witcher’s waist and digs into his hair with both hands, anchoring him down for more.

The only noises in the vineyard are the ones they make, the night sky drawn over them like a blanket and the full moon as their witness.

∞

Jaskier wakes up in the late afternoon light to a great mood, a terrible ache in his face, and Yennefer reading silently by the window.

“Thought I’d actually killed you,” she says, without raising her head from her book. “The Witchers are having a bet downstairs.”

“Which way did you bet?”

“I don’t bet. Ciri did, though. If you can string a whole sentence together in the dining hall at supper, she’s a rich girl again.”

Jaskier takes a moment to appreciate everything that, through loss, he has gained. An unlikely friend who watches over him without anybody asking; a goddaughter that trusts him enough to cheat a whole guild of Witchers out of their coin; and now…

“What are you smiling for?” Yennefer asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” he proclaims, jumping out of bed and throwing open the window to let in the cool winter air. “I believe I have something to show you.” He extends a hand towards her. “Will you do me the honor of sneaking in my chambers again tonight?”

“No,” she says, without missing a beat.

“Oh, come on, you know it’s not like that! And besides,” he continues proudly under the mage’s quizzical gaze, “I’m a taken man.”

“Perhaps I did punch you too hard,” Yennefer says, but she takes his outstretched hand nonetheless. He beams at her, twirls her around before she can protest, and picks up his lute on the way out.

∞

That night, Yennefer reluctantly lies down next to him and presses her fingers to his forehead, still unsure at the state of the bard’s mind. It would come as no surprise to her if he’d finally snapped, only so hard that he’d reverted back to his old self with slightly fewer marbles.

She opens her eyes in a vineyard bathed in sunlight.

∞

The next time, it’s all three of them. The Witchers of Kaer Morhen don’t really bat an eye at Yennefer coming in and out of Jaskier’s room at night and vice versa, but when one of them catches sight of Ciri sneaking through the corridors at an unlikely hour, he gives her a long, questioning look.

“Nightmares,” she says simply, and disappears behind the door to Yennefer’s room.

Eskel considers meddling for exactly one second. Then he shrugs, moving along without a word.

∞

Jaskier still visits Geralt alone plenty of times. One day, as they’re watching the sun set from the hilltop, the bard gives him the news.

“We found a spell,” he says. “Or rather, Yennefer made it. She didn’t really get the whole ‘maybe let’s ask him first’ thing, just looked at me really funny and also threateningly. So… what will it be?” A bard of his word, he delivers the question with an even voice and supportive eyes. He meant what he said: having Geralt back is more than enough for him. He’ll have his back whatever decision he makes.

Geralt pauses. He has thought about it often and thoroughly.

He looks over at Corvo Bianco. He can see the whole place from here: the vineyard, the cottage, the small plaza at the center where the animals are supposed to be.

The Witcher has never wanted anything for himself in life. That’s what the Path requires: complete dedication to the job, no attachments. Full preparation to give one’s own life for the cause. And he supposes he’s done that, hasn’t he?

Death has brought him a strange gift: wishes.

_Life is too short_ , Jaskier’s voice echoes in his thoughts. _I’m just trying to work out what pleases me_.

And at last, Geralt thinks, so has he.

He’s going to miss this place. The beauty, the quiet – the peace of it all.

But then again, there’s a place just like this waiting on the other side. And friends – a _family_ – to share it with.

A family who needs him.

A family he needs just as much.

Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders and says, almost casually: “We could head to the coast.”

Jaskier beams up at him like there’s nothing else he’d rather do. Like there’s no one else he’d rather have at his side – and the Witcher wonders if he’ll ever get used to it. Part of him hopes he never does.

“Yeah,” the bard replies, leaning into him. “That sounds nice.”

It really does.

∞

The pyramid takes up half the mountaintop.

“I have to ask, Yen,” Jaskier says, tentatively. “How pissed were you?”

“About half as much as you on a good day.”

The bard whistles. “Well, fudge.”

“You don’t have to keep yourselves from swearing in front of me,” Ciri cuts in, annoyed. “I grew up in my grandmother’s court, you know.”

“Fair point,” Jaskier replies, and feels just a tiny spark of joy at the sight of Ciri mentioning Calanthe so casually. They’ve all grown in the past year, more than they’ll ever know.

“We’re here,” Yennefer calls, her steps halting at the entrance of an enormous room with glasslike walls and floor.

In the middle of the room, encased in a coffin made of everlasting ice, lies the body of Geralt of Rivia.

Jaskier runs a finger along the surface of the case. It looks as though he’s sleeping: there’s no trace of injuries, no sign of decay. Yennefer did a spectacular job.

“Have you ever considered a career as a mortician?”

“Sure. I’ll start with you,” she replies with no real bite, then claps her hands once. “Alright. Places, people, places.”

They make a circle around the coffin, holding hands.

They chant in unison. Ciri’s voice, her lioness voice, makes the ice vibrate and cracks the coffin open. Yennefer’s Elder words, spoken in a soft crescendo, create an aura of light around Geralt’s figure. And Jaskier’s voice acts like a beacon, guiding Geralt back to the world of the living.

Will it work? None of them can say. They can only keep going, their voices filling the room with echoes, light, and hope.

As the singing fades, Jaskier makes a small cut across the palm of his hand, letting the blood spill on the floor. _Blood and love_ , Yennefer had said: Jaskier gives it all willingly.

With his other hand, he traces a finger over the surface: a sideways eight.

Breath coming out in puffs in the cold air, Jaskier opens his mouth, trying to keep his voice as steady as he can.

And then he speaks the words – the same words Geralt had spoken to him a year ago.

“Say my name.”

If it doesn’t work, Jaskier promised himself he’d only be slightly disappointed.

They can go back to Kaer Morhen and start their search anew; or they can let it go, and still meet with Geralt under the veil of sleep, in the safe haven of Corvo Bianco.

If it doesn’t work, Jaskier will go on. He will take up his lute and sing again, tonight, in the halls of the Witchers’ castle. He will do it again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.

He will kiss Geralt under the stars and the dying sunlight, every day, for the rest of his impossibly long life.

But how amazing, how wonderful would it be if it worked?

_Come home, Geralt._

He hears a voice then, faint a far away, in the back of his mind, calling out his name.

_Jaskier_.

And then Geralt’s eyes blink open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with this little story until the very end!
> 
> When I started publishing this, I never thought it would get this much love. Interacting with all of you in the comments has been the highlight of my days: I cannot thank you enough.
> 
> As I said in the first chapter, this story was supposed to be a 2k deathfic devoid of any hope. I've written those before; I _love_ writing those. And yet, here we are. I guess the years have made me soft, but as I wrote the first chapter, I found myself yearning for at least a bittersweet ending - and then that wasn't enough: I wanted a happy one. HEA after all!
> 
> One more note:  
> \- "Say my name" comes from Pandora Hearts. It was the first translation of the words required to form a blood pact with a certain chain (a creature which grants you powers for a certain amount of time, in exchange for your life when that timer ends). The correct translation actually turned out to be "say _the_ name", but it just stuck with me. Give it a read if you get the chance: I promise you it's worth it.
> 
> I want to thank you all again for everything: I hope this little epilogue wasn't too sappy. Like I said, I'm getting old.
> 
> I leave you with a quote that came at just the right time, as I was editing the final chapter of this fic, spoken by none other than our Geralt himself:
> 
> “There’s a grain of truth in every fairy tale. Love and blood. They both possess a mighty power. Wizards and learned men have been racking their brains over this for years, but they haven’t arrived at anything except…  
>  That it must be true love.” – Andrzej Sapkowski, _The Last Wish_
> 
> See you next time!
> 
> #YenneferDefinitelyTackledGeraltToo #OnlyThisTimeThereWereFists


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